ZeroBen's Captain America
by ZeroBen
Summary: Rebooting the legend, the greatest hero of all time, Captain America. From World War II and beyond, read as ZeroBen's Marvel Universe begins here!


**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Captain America or any related Marvel/Disney characters. **

**Notes;** _This takes place in the same universe as my Thor, Iron Man, Spider-Man and soon... Avengers... fics. This is going to have a different tone and style than the others, though. There's a bit harder of an edge to it. As well as just the storytelling will be different. More political, more controversial, more of an epic feel. _

**ZEROBEN'S CAPTAIN AMERICA **

**"Super Soldiers" Part I **

With the warm morning sunlight pouring in through the windows, the class room was filled with students. Today was to be a big one for them. It was Friday, and earlier in the week, they had been given a popular assignment. The assignment was...

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" the teacher, Simon Kirby, asked the students with a smile as he stood at the head of the class.

Everyone raised their hands, excited and anxious to read to everyone what they had written down for their projects. But, it was the young eight year old, Steve Rogers, who was selected by Mr. Kirby...

The very skinny and frail little boy stood up, nervous and shy, but wanting to tell them all about his dreams, "When I grow up, I want to be a soldier like my dad. He is my favorite person in the world. I want to be like him. I want to be a soldier in the Army, so I can fight the bad guys and save the world..."

An interruption in the form of laughter from the other students, which was quickly cut short by their teacher. Still, little Steve Rogers as a soldier? To them, it would never happen. No chance.

"I know that I'm small and not strong," Steve continued reading, "But, my dad says that the best soldiers are the ones with the biggest and strongest hearts. I'm not afraid of anything. Not even the dark or scary noises. I really want to be a soldier, and I hope that one day, my dream will come true."

"As do I," Mr. Kirby added, "Thank you, Steve. Now, who is next?"

**:::Germany::: **

**:::An Orphanage::: **

An eleven year old boy sat alone in the darkness of his room, the only bit of illumination stemming from faint candle light. His face dirty, black hair disheveled, clothes nothing but rags, he sat Indian-style on the floor, staring stone-faced into a sizable broken piece of mirror that he had found long ago.

Outside of the room, two people shared a conversation about him. One was a caring young woman who worked for the orphanage. The other was a man in a suit, hair just so, and an imposing air about him that the woman couldn't quite place a finger upon.

"His name is Johann Schmidt," she explained in the German language, "We are forced to keep him in this room, due to him being unable to socialize with others."

"How so?" the man's voice was rough.

The woman hesitated before finally answering, "He is very violent. Even to himself. He has carvings all over his body that are scarring. One is of the Swastika, right over his heart."

"I see," the man replied, "He is troubled, yes?"

"Terribly so," she said, "Stemming from his birth. His mother died as she was giving birth to him. And, his father... Tried to murder him when he was five years old. He still has the scars on his neck."

The man's mind conjured up ghastly images.

"As his hands were around the boy's throat, strangling him, he explained in very vivid detail... Exactly how the mother died," the woman swallowed, saddened by the mere mention of this terrible and tragic story, "For five years, a hole has been growing inside Johann's soul. One that is black, bleeding, and painful. We all fear that his hatred of the world grows with each day that passes."

In the small room, in that mirror, little Johann Schmidt didn't see the image of a young boy for his reflection. He saw something else. Something hideous. The recipe of nightmares. In fact, a nightmare itself. But, he welcomed it. It mirrored his hatred and disgust for everything. It mirrored the pain and suffering.

The image he saw in that broken glass was a horrific red skull.

**:::Years Later::: **

**:::An Army Recruitment Center in Brooklyn::: **

Twenty-five year old Steve Rogers had a dream. A dream to join the Army like his father and grandfather before him. It was actually more than just a dream. It was destiny. It was his fate. It meant everything in the world to him. Even though his family was against the idea, he believed that if given the opportunity, he could make them proud. His physical limitations wouldn't stand in his way.

After all, like his father always said...

"The best soldiers are the ones with the biggest and strongest hearts," Steve Rogers said, his turn coming up in line at the desk.

The man behind the desk didn't appear impressed. He held pity, though. And, for a fleeting moment, he almost gave the young man a go-ahead. But, couldn't bring himself to do it. His common sense and better judgment coming into play at a crucial moment.

"Please, sir," Steve stood up straight, but his skinny frame and lack of muscles or height, greatly decreased his chances, "I know I can do this."

"I'm doing you a favor, kid," the man said, offering a reject stamp on the bottom of the document, "Having a big heart will only get you so far."

"That isn't true," Steve took the sheet of paper and turned around, walking toward the exit.

"Kid," the man said abruptly, "Go home, find yourself a girl, live happily ever after and forget about this, okay? Not everyone is meant to fight in the war."

Steve kept quiet, exiting the center with a frown and a sense of defeat.

**:::Germany:::**

The now twenty-eight year old Johann Schmidt was being lead down a hall through a building that seemed a fortress. He was handcuffed, being shoved forward, hit with the end of a gun across the back of his head when he wasn't moving as fast as the men wearing black and dark green gear wanted him to.

He had been arrested for murdering a street merchant in broad daylight. Slit his throat, then gutted him... like a fish. The satisfaction Johann received from committing the murderous act felt more than good enough to justify whatever punishment lay before him.

He was taken to a prison. From there, transferred without explanation to this building. The outside was average and non-descript. The inside was armed to the teeth, and many suspicious looking armored guards lined the halls. Two of them pushing him forward.

They finally arrived at a metal door. Moments later, it was opened, Johann's shackles were unlocked, and he was pushed to the floor inside. By the time he collected himself and turned to face his tormentors, the door was already slammed shut and he was left in pure darkness.

**:::America:::**

Trying to fight the feelings of defeat and failure, Steve returned to the apartment he shared with his father and sickly mother. She had been stricken with a terminal illness that was soon reaching its completion. It wouldn't be much longer until she finally passed. Which, as much as Steve hated to admit, was a blessing in disguise at this point.

"I'm home," Steve greeted plainly, closing the door behind him, "Hello?"

"There you are," his father emerged from the bedroom, instantly grabbing his jacket and hat, "I need to get something from the market. Your mother's time is close. Stay in the room with her until I return."

"The nurses?" Steve questioned, wondering where they were.

"I paid their fees and sent them away," his father explained, going for the front door, "Now, do as I say."

Steve nodded, then called out to his dad before the man could make it through the doorway, "I didn't get in."

His father knew what he was referring to, and simply sighed, "I know how tightly you cherish that dream, son. But, it's best to be left as a dream. Now, see to your mother. I'll be back within the hour."

"Yes, sir,"

Once the door was closed and he was outside, Steve's father peeked into the pocket of his jacket, seeing a small revolver resting comfortably inside. His eyes closed for a moment as he took a deep breath. Then, he walked away from the house in more ways than just one.

Back inside, Steve took off his jacket, placing it upon the rack, and then went to his mother's bedside.

She was sleeping, though not peacefully. Even with the medicine, there was still more than enough pain to drive someone insane. She had always been a strong woman, though. Through and through. If anyone could deal with the suffering, it would be her. She was someone that Steve had always looked up to... Always admired.

Minutes after he had sat in the chair next to the bed, Steve was startled by a gasp from his mother, followed by her eyes opening. He quickly took her hand, holding it gently yet tightly at the same time...

"I'm here," he assured her.

"My son," her voice was feeble, barely audible, as her head tilted slowly so that she could look at his face, "My beautiful son."

Steve tried to smile, but couldn't. It may have been a blessing that her death was approaching. But, that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Any easier to digest.

"Did... Did you..."

"No," he answered quietly, holding her hand with both of his, "Not even close."

Tears fell from her eyes briefly, "Your great dream; To be... A soldier."

"Maybe I'll give it up," Steve felt a lump forming in his throat, "They all tell me the same things. Besides, I know how much you dislike the idea."

"I want you to be happy," her voice became very hoarse, "I want my son to smile and be proud of himself."

The seconds felt like minutes. Minutes like hours. But, that was good. Because Steve could feel it in the air. And, he knew his mother understood what was about to happen.

"Steve," she coughed painfully, "I've been so selfish... For so long. I am truly and deeply sorry for the mistake I made."

He shook his head, "No, you have nothing to be sorry about. You shouldn't think like that."

"I've never wanted you to grow up," she explained, crying, "I wanted to keep you my little boy forever. I never accepted that you've grown, you've matured. You're a young man now. Capable of making your own decisions."

She began coughing more. This time, a little blood spat past her lips, which Steve quickly cleaned for her.

"Just rest," he told her, "Save your strength."

"You have my blessing."

Steve didn't know how to take that. To analyze it would be selfish. To stress over it right now would be an insult to his entire family. This moment was about his mother, about her passing. It wasn't about him. He shouldn't even be thinking about himself at a dire time like this.

"I want you to be happy," she repeated, eyelids slowly dropping, breath slowly seeping out, voice trailing off, "I want my son to smile and be proud..."

Gone.

That very instant, that very moment in an infinite number of them, she passed on to whatever it was that happened next. Everything turned silent. Steve couldn't hear a single sound. Not even his own breaths or the hum of the heater in the corner of the room.

It lingered for ten minutes...

Until Steve finally let go of her hand, shaken by how cold it was. He stood up, eyes fixed on the now empty shell. There were no tears, though they threatened to escape. There was no remorse or regret, though they threatened as well. There was only...

Strength.

**:::Germany::: **

It felt like hours that he had been trapped in an empty and pitch black room. He simply sat on the floor, however. Remaining calm and composed, this current predicament doing nothing but strengthening the resolve he had burning inside along with the hatred and disgust for everything.

A bulb clicked on overhead, surrounding him in a circle of light, his eyes needing a moment to adjust...

"Johann Schmidt," a voice from the darkness, though it didn't seem to be in the room with him.

He listened, face reflecting anger.

"Your potential is awe-inspiring," the voice claimed, "It is what we long for, what he dream to discover. It is why we do what we do. It is why we have chosen this mission."

He remained silent.

"Johann Schmidt, I have an offer that you cannot refuse."

He listened closer.

"You have viciously murdered more than a hundred people. You have marked your own flesh in admiration for the Third Reich. Clearly, there is no one more suitable to become our top soldier than you."

Top soldier? What was this? What did he mean?

"Johann Schmidt, prepare to be destroyed and then re-made into perfection..."

Suddenly, the sound of heavy gears, and the floor directly underneath the young man was being lowered into what could only be described as the bowels of hell itself. Everything was bathed in red glow, steam and smoke rising from machines, and more of those armored black and green soldiers.

Running on reflex, Johann attacked the men with everything he had. However, he was no match for their armor and weapons. Once sedated, Johann was carried to a machine resembling a small chamber. His briefly sleeping body was placed inside, hooked to various tubes and other scientific instruments.

Slowly, Johann's eyes opened, and through a foggy haze, he saw a man wearing green and a monocle, with a bald head, staring at him, "... Be re-made into an unwavering symbol of our mission."

**:::America:::**

The hours had passed, nightfall coming. The proper authorities had been notified, the body had been taken away. Steve Rogers sat on the stoop outside in front of the door, blankly gazing out into the street as people of New York passed by. Every so often, someone would give their condolences, offer sincere wishes.

Steve's father never returned.

Steve had a bad feeling, but wouldn't give in to it. Fate couldn't be that unkind, that cruel. His father was fine. Probably just needed to get away for a little while, that's all. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to...

"Steve," his best friend, Isaiah Bradley, came jogging up to the steps, the look on his face expressing horror, "They found your dad, man."

"Found?" Steve asked, "He's not lost."

"The police found him behind a building downtown," Isaiah explained, "They said..."

Steve's head dropped into his hands, this certainly his darkest hour, "He's dead, isn't he?"

Isaiah sighed sadly, "I'm sorry."

"Do they know how?"

Isaiah didn't want to say, but had no choice, "He shot himself, Steve."

The sound of broken glass shattering as his world came down around him. What the hell was happening? When he woke up this morning, he was full of life, full of optimism. Everything was okay. His hopes were up high, untouchable. But now... now... It all just hurt so much...

Hands folded, eyes closed, head tilted against his hands, Steve spoke no higher than a whisper, "There's nothing left for me here."

"What do you mean?"

"It's all gone," Steve muttered, "I have no reason to stay here."

"Whoah, whoah," Isaiah didn't like this kind of talk, "You're not thinkin' about cuttin' loose like your daddy, are ya?"

Steve suddenly found focus in his life. Complete, unfiltered, unbroken, steadfast focus. One hundred percent. Absolute. It was all clear in his mind's eye. It all made sense. It all made perfect sense.

"I'm joining the Army," Steve stood, more determined than ever, "I'm walking down there and I'm not taking no for an answer," he walked past his best friend, marching to the recruitment center with nothing but the clothes on his back.

"Hold up," Isaiah grabbed his arm before he was out of reach, "Steve, they're not gonna take you, man. You know they're not."

Steve pulled away, keeping on his path, his road, "I'll write you, Isaiah. And, I'll see you when I get back."

**:::Germany::: **

Crying, weeping, mind, body and soul ravaged by torturous pain, Johann Schmidt was thrown into a dark cell with a bloody blanket over his head. He hit the stone floor hard, screaming out in pain. He crawled slowly to a wall, every movement he took feeling like his body were ripping apart. He crept to a wall, the blanket sliding off as he picked himself up.

Still crying from the physical torment, he turned and leaned back against the wall, trying to calm himself, trying to be strong. His fists shook as he tried to clench them. Guttural sounds slipped past his gritted teeth as he struggled. He pushed off the wall, attempting to stand tall... Only to collapse in a heap to his knees on the floor.

His face drenched in blood, the crimson spilling generously from his lips, his body littered with bruises and wounds, he weakly stood. It was his own personal war, just trying to stand up straight. The pain was so intense, so amplified, so surreal. Never could he imagine a torment so great.

Johann stood, only to fall yet again.

Summoning every ounce of strength that remained, every ounce of determination still left in his body, Johann attempted to stand once more. Through growling, painful screams and mind-warping torment, he completed his task. Doubled-over, hands on his knees, head hanging low, body swaying slightly. But, he was standing.

It wasn't good enough, though. Not satisfactory. Not becoming of a soldier dedicated to the cause.

The agony and torture feeding him now, Johann stood up straight and proud. In that moment, an overhead light turned on. This illumination revealed the new face of Johann Schmidt. The new face of the Third Reich. The new signature of all the Nazi movement truly meant. It was the face of fear, the face of death, the face that would haunt the minds and dreams of all those opposed to this way of life...

It was the face of...

The Red Skull.

**_:::ZEROBEN'S CAPTAIN AMERICA:::_**


End file.
